Courage, What It Means, Full Article

I would like to republish this here on my personal blog. I have removed it from its previous spot.

When I was asked to define, rather to describe what courage looked like to me I immediately went back to images of the old, grizzled general or the admiral standing there with a pipe clenched between his teeth. Am even more impressive, courageous image is that of the old weathered NCO who always appeared right behind when the time was worst, or best, for my ass and trouble. He was the guy who had seen it all and been through it all. He had probably even been chewed up, digested, and somehow reconstituted out of some cannibal's dung heap on a remote Pacific island or some forgotten banana republic in darkest Africa. He was the guy who, so it seemed, would lead me and whoever else was there through anything and everything. Even if it was by radio from somewhere else, or from the recesses and shadows of a memory, his voice could still curdle water, if need be, and embolden a young sailor to do what was necessary.

To the academic, courage would be defined, certainly not described, but defined as the ability, the willingness to confront fear, pain, danger, uncertainty, intimidation, hardship, death, or the threat thereof, to accomplish one's goals or lofty ideals. I imagine that it such a definition as this that lead the “occupods” of not too many years ago to make their name. I also suppose that now they sit around and congratulate themselves for their courage and fortitude in “sticking it to the man,” in fighting the establishment, even though not a single thing has changed in light of their movement, I have no doubt that they see themselves as courageous.

Courage is, after all, standing up for what one believes in. It is fortitude, no matter how one wishes to define it, or demean another person for behaving. The person who acts according to their beliefs, in defense of their beliefs, or by necessity of their beliefs can be said to be courageous. Such as some of the ancient philosophers had done, ancient philosophers like Socrates, and some not so ancient that would include Thomas Aquinas and Soren Kierkegaard.

In ancient Greece, the word Arete (air’ e-tee) meant, in its basic sense, anything of excellence and of high moral virtue. It is not gender typed, but was intended to refer more to mankind than to gods. One of Arete showed the highest excellence and effectiveness. This was brought forward in Homer's Iliad and Odyssey in directly showing their strength and courage.

It's easy to see that courage was one of the four Cardinal virtues in Grecian society that all persons were instructed to uphold along with prudence, justice, and temperance. For them, courage was a lack is cowardice where an overabundance is recklessness, as discussed in Aristotle's Nicomanchean Ethics. Socrates upheld this even to carrying out his own death sentence.

Throughout the growth and development of Europe and England, from the Dark Ages to to Middle Ages, on to the Medieval and, I would argue up through the creation of a modern England and Europe, courage has been one of the primary pillars of these cultures, the West. In the Medieval ages, in particular, Thomas Aquinas wrote of courage, saying that

Fortitude without justice is an occasion of injustice; since the stronger a man is the more ready is he to oppress the weaker

Fortitude, courage are much the same thing. That being the guts to see it through, to do all that is necessary to accomplish the mission, to reach the end game.

Not just in the West, but also in the far East there have been long histories of codes that require courage. Courage was listed as one of the seven virtues that the Japanese Bushido, the Warrior Class, lived by. These virtues were so steadfast that violation of one required a swift and sure retribution. The offending person had to pay with his own blood. Quite a hard line to take on courage, even in death at one's own hand there could be no cowardice. There had to be another Bushi present so that, if the Bushi who was making amends appeared to be about to make a sound, the second Bushi could remove his head so as to save him from a dishonorable death. What are the other virtues on that list for the Bushi? That list has morality, courage, benevolence, respect, honesty, honor, and loyalty. Take note that courage is second on the list and not by coincidence I think.

I do believe that courage is being afraid to do something and doing it anyway. That does not, though, include jumping off of the high dive or asking “that” gal out. Yes, those are real fears, the height, the possible rejection. I'm talking about those moments of absolute terror and chaos such as when a vehicle has just been blown up, is spinning on its roof, rocks and pieces of metal are falling, people are running around screaming and bleeding, and you have to make the decision to move and which direction to move in. How far is safe enough is another decision that is made while you and your team are hauling ass while someone, maybe more than one or two, are trying to remove your vital signs. Yes, that takes courage, particularly if you have to go back and grab a buddy to help get them out of the kill zone for whatever reason.

All you know at that point is that your head is pounding, your team is all there, you're yelling into a radio transceiver to be heard over gunfire and you have no unearthly idea what the the guy on the other end is saying because your ears are ringing so loud that even the guns next to you are barely audible.

But, I don't live in that world now. What do all these connotations and denotations about courage mean to me? How do I define courage now? What is a courageous act at this point in my life now that I am far from the sandbox, no longer in a hot zone? How do these historical and theological definitions and laws regarding courage effect to me today?

They all do. Every definition, every connotation, every way, every person that I have met who can be seen as an embodiment of courage has impacted me to some degree. Just as every act of cowardice I have witnessed has stirred and angered me to the point it has, be it just enough to make my face heat up or to make me take action in the face it, every bit of courageousness I have learned about has changed me in some way.

At the end of the day, with my family and my life, since I have to say how what courage is to me, I follow the lesser known Greek thought on courage. Above I mentioned the more commonly known Greek interpretation of courageousness. This one, the one I tend towards and, I suppose that I always have, involves the concept of endurance. I have to be able to go all the way, I have to see the race to the end. I have started, after all, and I must finish it and in good form. All this requires endurance.

Writers of legend and lore like Homer from the age of lyric writing wrote of great endurance in his heroes. Endurance and a driving will to resist obstacles that were thrown into his path at every turn. Surely, some days feel like that, not just for me, I'm sure. This will to continue is not just for the outward enemies that Homer wrote about or that veterans of all wars had fought.

This will, this endurance is aimed sure at inward passions and misfortune in general. These intangible enemies van be just as deadly and destructive as any met on a beachhead or mountainside in any other country. The courage, the heart to keep going forward at home and with my family and, especially, inside myself is the hardest courage to find on most days.

This courage, as hard as it is to find, is vital. This is the means by which a man, this man and the next man can preserve their inward identity. This is grit in its truest sense, not a social construct, not even the special virtue of a warrior who would put his life down for the honor of it. No, this is an “ironness of heart” (Oddyssey XX9-30), my central being.

Courage is far more than a state of mind or state of being it is an emotion and comes from the heart. In this way, as an emotion, courage drives us to greater achievements than any mindset alone ever could. It was no mindset by which Shakespeare wrote any sonnet. It was by no mindset that a squad member or platoon member ever ran back into a hail of gunfire and explosions to grab someone. No, these were done from the heart, out of love. Courage, coming from love, is what gives the true warrior his heart. Love is what makes a mother such a formidable force.

Through connecting with my heart to my family again and to myself, finding the value in me, you finding the value in your person, the love will be there to build the courage to face and overcome the obstacles each of us will face.

This is the key to the heart of the man who cannot just survive, but thrive having been thrust naked and alone into a hostile world. This courage is not the gist of a social station or social conscience, this is the inner being that I am coming to grips with that will take me through my Post Traumatic Growth.

Writing Exercise

Hello, everyone. A little while ago I signed up to receive writing prompts and other exercises from Joe Bunting at The Write Practice (http://www.thewritepractice.com). The exercises are generally interesting, almost always a challenge, and, without a doubt, bring forth a surprise for me. Yesterday's was certainly no exception.

The problem addressed was writer's block. The solution presented was to write gibberish for 10 minutes. Just write what comes to mind and then post our results on his blog page. Which I did and am delisting here for your amusement or bemusement, whichever you prefer.

If you have not been to Joe's blog yet, I think you would do well to visit and consider his techniques.

Here is my 10 minutes of mad mental mumbling;

Time is warm and the egg is moist! I must get to the warp pad before the tiny grapefruit boil over in the bracabrac sauce. Why? because clay elephants wading in the ocean leave no tracks on the tonsils of mega mouthed clams and snail tongues licking daisies. Just because your sky is blue does not mean that my shoes are, too tiny to see with a telescopic zoom lens. Still, there might be another thing coming in the dryer venting about the crowds on the bus going down the drain spout to wash the spider out, but out comes the sun stroke will stop them in their tracks across the freshly laid concrete all smooth and floated no flaws or wrinkles and not too bloated. Hey, my tongue's not coated, that bag has not been toted, he gloated, my he got my goated the lilly pad was toaded, it was fully loaded, or so the reporter noted and the proud mother doted over her little tadpoles wiggling in the puddle drying fast beneath the sun that was drying up the rain so that the spider could crawl up the spout again. With this final thought I leave you, tuna does not fly on the north winds of yesteryear!

Unflinching

Unflinching and still
Swift as wind with iron will
Flash of steel, one kill

Flesh and Bones

Rotting flesh and bones
Scattered amongst tree and stone
Suicide forest

Gears and Springs

Creaking gears and springs
Organs, blood, and sinew strings
What joy darkness brings

What's Wrong

People keep asking what's wrong
when nothing at all is right
It shows in our eyes
that empty, vacant look
Our eyes do not lie about us
or to to us
Our hearts don't lie either
Your mouth lies
It causes the pain in this word
Pain, anguish, hurt, wars, hate, and distrust
each of these things that damage our souls
erode them, cause them to rust
This slow demoralization
begins with one, two or maybe even a few
It spreads, devouring, eroding
our souls
It all emanates from the mouth
off the tongue
What is wrong, you ask
What's wrong is that we see the attrition
and react with a haughty air and callously
look away
The disintegration begins at that moment

There's Nothing Left

I got nothing
Nothing left in me to give
Nothing left for you to take
Nothing left at all to break
There's nothing left for chrissake!

So, go to hell
Or send me to hell
Either way it all ends well
There's nothing left for chrissake!

I left all behind when I went away
I buried what was left in another land's day
I was paid my money, but, dear God what a price I had to pay
There's nothing left for chrissake

I got no tears, not any more
Only fears, from too much war
No one's here, not anymore
There's nothing left, for chrissake


(C) Marcel Trepanier 2014

Guiding Light

In antiquity, days of yore

When vikings left their rocky shore

With woolen sail and oaken oar

Home fires burnt atop the fjords

Those fires, o'er time, they grew and grew

The keepers came, one task to do

Guide sailors home was what they knew

Sending ships to safe harbors, too

Those light no longer light the skies

Or warn the tide has yet to rise

Sailors come home with haunting eyes

By the guiding light through your eyes

© Marc Trepanier 2014

After The Morning After, installment 4

Ernie had spent the rest of his day, and evening, going over the stabbing and chainsaw attack in Miami. Even when he left the precinct, long after his shift ended, he kept stewing on it. The brutality is what stuck in Ernie's mind. “Anderson was stabbed 83 times and Garcia 65, ordinarily that would be a crime of passion … of anger, hate, lust, or something that makes sense.” He talked to himself while walking to his car, “But Sharp, what the hell was that? A chainsaw, for chrissake? No, that was,” Ernie was struggling to find the right word, to understand what the perpetrator was thinking or feeling, “that was for the thrill of it. That was so … extravagant … unreal … beyond extreme.”

When he got to his car Ernie had a strange feeling, one that he had not had for years. Not since he was a young Airborne Ranger fighting in some of the most dangerous areas the world had to offer. The hair on his neck pricked up, he felt a burning sensation on his back, a dire sense in his gut that screamed RUN! He stopped several feet from his car. He considered that feeling. The sense of being watched, hunted that makes a rabbit or a squirrel freeze and stand motionless while it scans the area looking for its predator. That sensation, sixth sense, if you will, is hard wired into every animal, humans included. For combat veterans that feeling had saved their lives more than once was heightened. Ernie was no exception.

Ernie had first learned to pay attention to that while working in South America two or three lifetimes ago, as he was fond of saying. That sense seemed like ESP to the younger troops who would later work with him. He taught them, as he had learned, “You pay attention to that ESP-like feeling we all get when being watched. That's your brain telling you that something meaningful is about to go down.”

Continuing past his car, Ernie walked on for several blocks. His attention now was devoted entirely to finding who was following, hunting him. He would stop at store windows and pretend to look inside at the displays while glancing side to side with his eyes, noting the descriptions of who was at each side of the street and who was passing him. Crossing the street in the middle of the block and going around turns to see who came hurrying around the corner was another tool he used to see who might be following him. Nothing.

Shrugging it off Ernie decided that maybe he was just being paranoid. “I oughta get a coffee and something to eat before walking home, he said to himself.” He had decided that if, and he did mean if, he was being followed, there was no way that he was going to backtrack into an ambush. He headed for a corner cafe.

He hadn't been at the counter for more than 5 minutes when a tall, slender man came in and sat down on the padded stool one down from him. After he ordered his food he casually looked in Ernie's direction, “Hey,” he said.

“Evening, “ Ernie replied.

“So, how safe do you really feel walking around here at night? I mean, what with kids, teens, that is, being violent and attacking people.”

“What, you mean the knockout game?” Ernie asked in response.

“Yup.”

“If you're paying attention to the world around you then you don't look like a target.”

“Yeah, I can see that, people being sucked into their own little world of distractions, huh.” When Ernie didn't reply the man went on, “What about that recent killing? What was the victim's name? Williamson?”

“Williams,” Ernie corrected him. “The man's name is Craig Williams.”

“The man? Really? I was sure that he was dead, you know, a victim.”

“He was a human being, with people who knew and cared about him. It's good to remember that and to call him by name until his murder is figured out.”

“I don't think that the police are going to catch this guy.”

Ernie spun a little to look at the man, “Really? Why not?”

“Come on, there have been serial killers before that have gotten away from the police. The Frankford Slasher was never caught. Neither was the I-70 killer.” Ernie looked as if he was going to retort when the man interrupted, “Besides, officer, who's to say that the Frankford killer didn't teach someone how to use a knife?”

“Are you telling me that you think Williams was killed by one guy who might have been trained by pervert like Frankford Slasher? How old would someone like that have to be now, 55, 60 years old? Great,” Ernie quipped, “we'll start looking for the Senior Slasher.”

“I didn't mean to be so insulting. I have no doubt that you and your coworkers are far more capable now than the Philadelphia detectives were during 1985 into the early 1990's. Think about it, though, an apprentice, a younger protege, perhaps, wouldn't that be quite a way to leave a legacy going? Going from Baltimore to Cove Fort, Utah?” He dug out some cash and put it on the counter as he stood up and headed for the door. He stopped at the door and said to Ernie, “ Maybe Charlie Chop-off didn't commit suicide, but was killed by Slasher's apprentice because Charlie was simply a disgusting creature and needed to be destroyed” he steps out the door and disappears into the night.

Finally, Ernie stopped feeling so uneasy. “I never told him that I was a cop, but that doesn't mean much,” Ernie was trying to reconcile instincts, and the reality of the likelihood. Dropping a handful of bills on the counter and heading for the door, Ernie swore, “The fucking reality is that I've been chatting with the bastard that killed Williams and who has been stalking me tonight.” Looking up and down the street Ernie did not see anyone. “Of course not, you're too smart to hang out on the street and wait in plain site.” Stepping out to the curb he hailed a cab and went straight to his apartment. Ernie, in spite of the Aussie or was it English, driver being chatty, sat in silence thinking about his next steps.

Once inside his apartment he called Jason. “Hey, kid. Listen, I just had the strangest conversation with, and you will never guess who, the guy with the knife.”

“You have got to be shitting me.”

“No, it was him. I was thinking about that case from Miami and What had happened to Williams. I'd been working late, was tired ...”

“I get it, you were tired, off your game. Don't sweat it.”

“The guy is crazy. He's absolutely insane, Jason.” Ernie paused, “Shithouse crazy, but good stalker.”

“Go ahead, talk to … “

“You know, Jase, I shouldn't have bothered you. The jack spooked me a bit. I'll file a report in the morning. It's nothing but a thing.”

“You sure, Ernie?”

“Yeah, no big deal. Go back to getting your warm milk together, kid.”

After hanging up his shirt and tie in his bed room, locking up his Barretta, and pocketing his S&W hammerless revolver into his pocket he headed back to his tiny kitchen. Once there he got himself a glass, some ice, and then poured a generous amount of vodka. He considered the bottle for a few moments, Stolichnaya. “You always had higher tastes than you could truly afford, Ernie, ol' boy.” He shook his and put the rest of the bottle away. On his way back to his over stuffed recliner, he turned on some old quiet jazz, then sat back.

The cold Vodka tasted good and felt warm in his throat, warm like the summer night out there.

Jason Bolger had always been as interested in keeping his mind and body strong as he was in being a top of the line police officer. Between studying, becoming a detective, and the keeping in top shape made it so Jason had no time to stay in a long term relationship. He couldn't even say that he dated for long. His training showed. He was handsome, clean cut brown hair, lean, muscular and lean.

When Ernie had called, Jason was just finishing up a workout. The idea that anyone on the team was being stalked was troubling enough. The possibility that it was the same guy who was part of the group that did Williams was troubling. He grabbed his phone again and dials Love's number. It goes to voice mail. “Hey, it's Jason. I, uhh, just got off the phone with Ernie. He thinks that one of the perps from the Williams case had stalked him. He said that the guy was talking to him at the diner down from the precinct. FYI, you know. Call me.”

“Now, I need a shower, yuck.” The shower was on and ran hot for several minutes.

Zachary had already cased the area and the apartment, having been in the area for several weeks now. Hunting was so much more gratifying than random killing for Zachary. He found it so much more challenging as well as more personal. He really enjoyed getting to know people.

He knew his path in and out as well as the methods he would use to do so. There were also several hiding places selected as well as alternate routes.

Waiting in the shadows, he listened for the telltale sounds of a person rubbing their body in the spray of a shower. He was listening for the change in how the water fell against the tub and the sides of the shower wall. When he heard those sounds Zachary smiled.

Quietly, deliberately Zachary opened the closet where he had been hiding. He crept gingerly through the hall and into the master bedroom and up to the bathroom door. It opened easily, the bathroom was steamed up, and as quietly as the door had opened it closed again.

Zachary reached in with one arm, pulling the shower curtain from its rings and wrapping his victim with it. He held his target in a python like hold with his arm around the neck and tight under the chin, there was no way that any shouts or hollering were going to come out of that mouth. His victim fought, and fought hard. Zachary grunted in pain and surprise as as elbow smashed back into his midsection, taking some of his breath away. A foot came smashing back against his knee and nearly broke it. “Oh, we'll have to put an end to that and fast.”

Zachary pulled his knife from behind his back and thrust the knife into the side of his victim up to the hilt. He stabbed again, and again, and again. The blade entered at steep angles going from beneath the shoulder blade up and through the body until the blade stuck out under the clavicle. He stabbed at shallow angels so that the dark blade went straight through tissue, muscle, and organs. The black blade easily pierced both shower curtain and flesh.

Zachary smiled. In the beginning, decades ago, there was a time when there seemed to be a point of hesitation, a moment where the victim's skin resisted being punctured. But, at some point, that changed. He knew exactly when the change came for him. It was in Philly, and he was young. He learned much then, but he had so much more to learn from that point going forward to get him to where he was now, standing in that bathroom, dancing with both his knife and his would be hunter to the decadent music that had been playing while Zachary waited patiently in the closet of the guest room.

Yes, in the beginning there was a point of hesitation when the point of the knife just entered the skin, not anymore. Now, it slid up to the hilt with ease each time, like a graceful dance.

Zachary continued his stabbing along with the beat of the music until the song ended. At which point he tossed the now dead body onto the bottom of the shower. The curtain fell away partially from the face and part of the torso. Water running into the curtain at the top washed through and ran down the drain red, mixed with blood, tissue, and other bits of body waste.

On the bathroom sink Zachary carefully placed a delicate finger and a business card.

Jason's phone was ringing. It was now 12:26 in the morning. The phone went to voice mail. After a few moments it started ringing again. “Shit, what? … where? “ Jason stumbled out of his bedroom into the hallway to pick up his cellphone. “What? Yes?”

Amy was on the other end, “I just called Joyce, get dressed and get your ass over the The Bradbury. It's just you two for now.”

“What? Why? What's going on?” Jason was having a difficult time getting his head together.

“Ernie,” Amy paused for a moment, her tone changed drastically, “Ernie is heading to Dorothy Acevedo's place.”

“Oh, shit, no. Was she … “ Jason did not want to say the word.

Amy finished it for him, “Killed, yes. She was found just a little bit ago, stabbed in her shower.” She swallowed hard as she stomach rose. “There was a finger from another victim left there, too. Along with it was a business card from The Bradbury.”

Jason's blood had already gone cold and he was feeling sick and livid. “You think that might be Gabrielle's finger.” It was not a question, rather a statement. “I'm there.”

12:56 The Bradbury

Jason had been waiting outside for Joyce for 5 minutes, and was already sick of waiting. He decided to go upstairs and see if she was there waiting for him. If not, he could get a start processing and looking things over before they brought in the CSI technicians. In that instant, he winced. He pictured Dorothy being stabbed to death by a shadowy figure; some ghoulish thing that lurked in the shadows, a boogey man that prayed on the unsuspecting and innocent attacking Dorothy without mercy and leaving her to die alone in the dark of her apartment. Those images flashed uncontrollably through his mind, enraging him. “Damn it all,” Jason swore bitterly under his breath as he pushed through the doors. He marched through the lobby with grim determination, he was on a mission. Jason had determined that he was the one who was going to bring down this slasher.

Jason knocked at the condo door. There was no answer. He checked the door and found it unlocked. Stepping inside, the living room is dark. Jason steps to the side of the door as he closes it quietly behind himself. He takes out his pistol and a flashlight. Instead of turning the flashlight on immediately, Jason stands there and lets his eyes adjust to the darkness and his ears to the sounds, as well as the silence, that he can hear in the condo.

After a few moments a faint glow became clear from up the hall. “That must be the den,” Jason whispered under his breath to himself. Quietly and carefully he crept around the edge of the living room. The thick carpet easily swallowed any sound that might have been made. In the shadows of the kitchen there was something large and round that caught his attention. Jason paused momentarily, stared at what was two large wagon wheels. He shrugged, “Doesn't seem to fit the décor in here, but maybe Gabby wanted to change things up. Who am I to judge?”

Zachary watched Jason quietly, gingerly step in from the living room. He crouched in the deeper shadow behind the small table just beyond the entrance to the den from the hallway and watched as Jason considered the wagon wheels in the kitchen for a few seconds. Zachary felt a tingle, a thrill, excitement pulse through him. “I love the hunt,” he mouthed without speaking a word.

Completely unaware that he was being watched by predatory eyes, Jason crept closer. The light Jason saw was coming from the den. It flickered and glowed lightly. Someone had left a candle burning. Jason stood to the side of the entry to the small room and peeked in before edging inside. The room was too small for anyone to hide there, so Jason walked in. Jason knew that something was amiss, but could not place it. He had that feeling of being watched, but he lacked the experience to rely on that feeling.

Jason started held his weapon in front of him at arm's length and down some, but ready to snap the weapon up to position for use in at a moment's notice. Nothing, no one was there. Without warning a woman, hands and legs tied, fell face down in the hall at the den's entrance. She turned her head to look at Jason. Her dark brown hair obscured her face some. He saw that she had already been badly beaten her face was bloodied and bruised. Jason recognized Joyce almost immediately. He did not catch the look of fear and warning. Jason made an instantaneous decision to get Joyce.

Joyce shook tried to shake her head, but pain ripped through her head and neck stopping rapid movements, pain so severe that she nearly passed out. Having landed face down on her ribs, several of which already broken, made breathing hard enough, but the ball gag strapped into her mouth made it even worse. Everything that hurt inside her, the broken bones, the bruises, not one of them hurt as much as knowing that what happened to her was about to happen to Jason.

Jason was reaching out for Joyce when something stopped him. Maybe that nagging little voice finally screamed loud enough that he could no longer ignore it, but he stopped mid stoop. There was something in the shadow to his right in his periphery. As he turned to look Jason reflexively brought his hands up.

The kick was hard enough that it would have knocked Jason unconscious had it not been for him swinging his hands into a blocking position. Still, the force of that kick knocked Jason up and back, landing him on his back on the small coffee table, breaking the table under him. Jason was dazed his pistol had slammed into the right side of his face, cutting him open near the temple.

Zachary stepped over Joyce and into the den at speed. Raising his pistol, Jason tried to shoot, but the room was too small and Zachary was moving too fast. He kicked Jason's gun hand with so much power that the bones in Jason's hand near the pinky and in his wrist shattered.

Zachary dropped onto Jason, ready to go into ground and pound. Jason pressed up with his damaged hand to gain some sort of control over his attacker and pulled him down sharply, forcing Zachary to quickly place his hands out for support on the ground. Using his left, Jason threw as many solid hooks as he could land against the right side of Zachary's face, head, and jaw. “That's the spirit, Jason!” Zachary cheered with enthusiasm, clearly enjoying the fight.

Joyce lay on the floor, helpless to do anything, in physical agony, watching this lunatic kick and then land on her partner, her hope for survival. Her heart sank as that man landed. When Jason started throwing punches, she found a sense of hope. Joyce tried as best as she could to cheer around the ball gag. Hearing the pleasure in Zachary's voice chilled the blood in Joyce's veins.

Taking Jason's damaged hand in his, Zachary smiled as he squeezed and twisted it. The reaction was immediate and automatic, Jason hollered as he reached over with his good hand to fight. Zachary hammered with his other fist against the side of Jason's jaw and head a few times. Jason went limp.

How long Jason was unconscious, he had no way of telling. What woke him up was the sharp pressing, almost cutting sensation of steel against his upper left arm, then it stopped. The overhead lights were on. He figured that he was on the kitchen floor. The pain, what woke him up, started again, grabbing his full attention.

His attacker was standing over him and pulling against a red handle. Pain increased in his arm and Jason snapped to full consciousness and stared in shock. There was a large pipe wrench around his upper arm. Jason tried to move, all of his limbs were strapped tight to something. To what he wondered. Trying to keep his mind occupied while this lunatic was snapping the bones in his arm was impossible, but the realization hit him. The wagon wheel that he saw when he came in was what he and Joyce were strapped onto with heavy duty zip ties.

Having his arms completely broken was excruciating, knowing that Joyce was watching while awaiting her turn was tearing him up inside. Jason was helpless, he knew that this guy would make sure that he would watch Joyce get busted up just like Joyce was being forced to watch him.

“Jason, where are my manners?” His attacker leaned in. “I have neglected to introduce myself to you and your lady companion. I am Zachary Leach, lifelong purveyor of pain,” he swung the large, heavy pipe wrench hard against Jason’s thigh. It cracked hard against the bone after causing massive amounts of damage to the thigh muscle, “sultan of suffering,” he swung again at the same spot, Jason was writhing and screaming against his gag as Zachary readied for a third swing, “and master of mangling.” This time he smiled a twisted smile as he swung the wrench with both hands. Jason’s thigh crunched as it broke. Zachary continued like this until every part of Jason’s body that could be broken had been.

Then, as Joyce watched, Zachary weaved each of Jason’s limbs through the spokes of the wagon wheel. As each limb was brought to the end of its pattern Zachary zip tied it in place. With Jason broken and tangled through the wheel, Zachary Propped the wheel up so that Jason could see Joyce clearly.

“Now, Jason, you will be broken.” He put a hand under Joyce’s chin, “You see, everything that I just did to you, you will watch me do to Joyce here.” With that, Zachary went about his gruesome work of putting Joyce into the breaking wheel.

Zachary stood there admiring the two detectives for a few moments. “Well,” he said, crossing his arms, “there is one thing left to do.” Reaching behind him Zachary produced a long, thin bladed black knife. He stepped over to Jason first, slid it gently across the man's cheek, “You like that? It's a Sykes Fairbairne commando knife. It was a gift from the Frankford Slasher. I earned it when I was just 13 years old.” Zachary smiled and, to Jason’s surprise, looked nostalgic when he mentioned it.

Fear and pain were clear in Jason's eyes, but no tears had fallen. Zachary had not broken him, and he knew it. “No, you are too strong for that. You know that you are both going to die here tonight. You have already resigned yourself to that. But are you ready to watch your close friend and partner bleed out?” Zachary walked over to where Joyce was hanging. Taking Joyce's ball gag out of her mouth, he looked back over his shoulder and into Jason's eyes, adding, “First.”

Joyce was gasping in agony, trying to get enough breath to speak. All she could do was beg, “Please, Zachary, you don't have to do this. Really, killing us … “

“Is necessary.” Zachary grabbed Joyce's jaw from underneath, his fingers and thumb pressed the tender flesh on the inside of her mouth against her teeth. “You see, I do have to do this. For me, killing is like breathing to you.” With that, he smiled as he gently, slowly pushed the razor sharp knife easily into the soft flesh beneath Joyce's tongue. Blood of a deep, rich cherry color immediately flowed fast and steady, filling her mouth. Zachary tugged the blade to one side, widening the hole and increasing the blood flow. Joyce screamed, but it was cut short as Zachary pushed her mouth shut and her head back and up. He held her there for a few moments before letting her go. Joyce hung her head down, arterial blood draining from her mouth as she cried and made odd noises while she tried to make words with her tongue mutilated.

Zachary looked at Jason for a moment. Tears were running down his cheeks. He was crying. “Crying for Joyce, are you?” Zachary smiled. He smiled an honest smile, one that came from the heart and it showed true happiness and joy. “Now, I can kill you, Jason.” Zachary removed the ball gag from Jason's mouth and he immediately spat into Zachary's face. “Kiss my ass,” Jason said defiantly.

“I believe that John Wayne Gacy said that exact same thing at his execution, too, in 1994.” Zachary said with a twisted smile. In a flash the smile was gone as he grabbed Jason's face as he did Joyce's. Jason fought it, but the force in Zachary's grip felt more like a vice. “Go ahead, Jason, make me break your jaw. I don't care.” In the background Zachary could hear Joyce crying and her blood running out onto the kitchen floor. He squeezed Jason's jaw a little harder and twisted his hand harshly, wrenching Jason's mouth open. “Right, then, here we go, say ahhhhh.”

As Zachary left The Bradbury and walked up the street, he smiled, saying to himself, “Now, to go tend to Gabrielle.”

No Tears

I hang my head and wonder why
I feel so sad, hurt, and empty
There is nothing left to cry

It does not matter, not anymore
This wound has been rubbed so raw
So bloody and sore

Words have no effect, no impact,
    no meaning anymore
One fight after another
It seems like an endless war

The more time has passed since last
    I've wept
Darkness, into my heart, more more
    has crept
Long ago, from a precipice my faith
    has lept

I hang my head and wonder why
I feel so sad, hurt, and empty
There are no tears left to cry

After The Morning After, installment 3

7:00 am came, the night shift was getting ready for to change over, go home and rest. The changing of the guard, as it were, for this area of Indianapolis was just begining. Patrolmen and women were coming in, some in uniform and some in street clothes. Computers hummed as reports were getting filed. Phones rang, suspects being held for questioning were making things difficult. Basically, things were in state of chaos as Jason pushed his way in with two boxes from the local pastry shop in one hand.

He made his way through the crowded room to the conference room. Amy was already there with a full coffee pot. Recognizing the CZ on the sides of the white boxes she smiled with anticipation. Just the thought of the fresh treats made her mouth water. “Whatcha got there, Bolger, fat bombs?”

“Oh, yeah, just got them fresh from that Czech bakery on the corner.” Jason set the boxes on the end of the table near the coffee pot.

Amy quickly made her way over. “These are my favorites! Thank you.”

Reaching over Jason's Shoulder, Ernie grabbed a doughnut, “Zelenka's, way to go, kid!”

Laughing, Jason ribbed Ernie, “Hey! Hey! Get yer fat fingers outta there, Ernie! Those are going to send your cholesterol through the roof, pal.”

After a while, Joyce Wolfe, Stewart Wausau, and Dorothy Acevedo, the crime scene technician came in. Amy began, “Alright, what do we know. Exactly what do we have?”

“Craig the Colander?” Jason asked. There were a few chuckles

“Funny, I bet you strained for that one, huh, Jason? No, seriously.” Walking to the white board Amy wrote on it “Craig Williams” and beneath that “Murdered.”

“Amy?”

“Yes, Joyce?”

“Can we be sure that this was a murder and not a suicide?” The others broke out laughing. Amy shook her head and looked at the floor. Joyce continued, “I mean, we haven't a suicide note, yet, but we really can't rule that out, can we?”

“We are so screwed.” Amy mumbled to herself with a chuckle. “Joyce, I expect this crap from them, not you. How did these schlepps get to you so quickly, hon?” Amy took a few deep breaths as her friends laughed a little more. “Seriously, what does this event look like to you?”

Everyone went quiet for a few moments. Dorothy, the crime scene technician, even though she had been a uniformed officer first, who seemed too young and innocent to have been a patrol officer much less now picking through crime scenes was the first to break the silence, “This looks like a personal crime. At least, to me it does.” She looked around nervously, “A crime of passion … you know… right?”

All the detectives looked at her as if they were asking silently for further explanation “A personal crime?” Amy gently urged Dorothy to expand on that thought.

Nervously Dorothy continued, “Well, yeah, personal. How much more personal can you get than all those stab wounds?” She looked around for help, but no one offered any. “Plus, a knife is so up close and personal, and that many wounds, wow! There is a lot of passion in that, a lot of anger.”

To Dorothy's relief someone else had something to add, making this a conversation, it was Stewart. “Ordinarily, I would agree with you. 150 stab wounds is very passionate and very personal, yes.” He walked over to get a fresh cup of coffee. “But, I have to tell you, absolutely none of those wounds, in and of themselves, was life threatening.”

The looks on everyone's face said enough, but Ernie put voice to it, “What?!”

“Alright, guys, and gals, here's the deal, if Craig had only been stabbed 10, 20, maybe even 30 times, maybe 40, Craig Williams would have survived long enough to get medical assistance. In that case, even with his being hung up and left swinging in the manner he was found, Craig would still be with us today. But, no, he was stabbed 150 times in specifically chosen places. Those places were chosen so as not to kill him, but to bleed him out and cause him severe pain.”

Amy's forehead had wrinkled up, “So, you're telling us that it was not just random stabbing? The attacker, uhh, murderer or murderers or whatever, stabbed Craig with deliberate precision?”

“Exactly, each stab was deliberate.” Stewart replied, “The placement and position of the blade was expertly picked. Done so that Craig would feel the agony of each cut individually and in total as he bled out,” Stewart explained.

Everyone was quiet, trying to absorb both information and perspective that Stewart had just provided.

“You have that straight. I can also tell you that the knife was extremely sharp, it has two smooth edges, and a thin blade.” Stewart finished and sat down.

Amy summed things up, “So, our killer, he or she, knows exactly how to use a knife. Do we think the perp is working alone or with a partner or maybe two?”

“He or she?” Jason asked. Why do you think there is any question? There is no way a woman could drag a man that big up onto the elevator, poke holes all over him, and then suspend him inside the elevator to be found again. It had to be a guy.” Ten he added quickly, “And, yes, I think there were two, at least two working on this up there. It makes no sense that any less that one man could do that.”

“I do not want to make any assumptions on how many at this point,” Ernie said. “The evidence we have doesn’t say if it was one, two, three, or a dozen.” He looked around. “C’mon, work from the basics, from what we do have.”

“I'm not sure that a jealous woman couldn't be behind it.” Dorothy interjected. “Really, don't put anything past a woman who feels threatened … or even left out.”

Jason looked at Dorothy even though he thought it, he surely didn't say it, who the hell was feeling threatened in this case kid? Shit! He just shook his head, clearly not believing that this possibility was even brought up. The others were looking at her in disbelief, too. “No, she’s right, no idea is thrown out, Dorothy.” Jason looked at Amy as if to say that he was doing this just for her, “How? How could a woman have done this, Dot?”

Shifting in her seat to face Jason and sitting up straighter, “She maybe hired a couple of guys to do this? You, know, cash or the promise of her bed.” She paused for effect and, as she settled back into a more relaxed position, “you'd do it for a body like Gabrielle's, Jason.”

As everyone hooted and jabbed, Amy was getting tired of what she termed General Jackassery. “That's enough of the horse shit! All ideas are valid right now. The more time we spend joking around and busting each other’s balls the less progress we are going to make. That makes it more likely that the perps or perp will get away! So, stay on target. All ideas are valid at this point. Well, all ideas except those including little green men beaming Craig into that position, okay?”

Breaking the silence Jason spoke up, “The interviews and our investigation so far reveal that Gabrielle and Craig were not living together. Craig has his own place on the upper side of town. Gabrielle has her own tiny, and I do mean tiny, apartment just south of here. This condo and the interviews indicate that Craig and Gabrielle were shacking up here a few nights a week while trying to keep it quiet for professional reasons.”

“Their neighbors liked them,” Joyce added while casting a cold glance at Jason, “They were quiet neighbors who got along well enough with everyone on the floor. The only wrinkles might have been that Gabrielle is flirtatious. Maybe a little too flirtatious, I'm told by a few of the wives there, but not so much that anyone was ready to get into a fight over that I could tell.”

“We know that Craig left Gabrielle's place at 6:30 and was found two hours later at 8:30.” Jason continued.

Dorothy could not keep her reaction in, “Ugh, two hours of being stabbed? That must have been horrific.”

“Alright, so we can rule out a crime of passion, then, maybe?” Ernie winked at Dorothy.

Dorothy rubbed her eye with her middle finger in response.

Wanting to keep it productive, Ernie asked “Was it sexual in any way?”

“What?” Joyce spun in her seat.

“You know, like Dennis Rader?”

“Dennis who?”

Even Jason could hardly believe that Joyce was having a hard time recalling this name, “C'mon, Joyce, you know, Dennis Rader? The BTK serial killer? You remember, Bind, Torture Kill, he killed … uhh, what was it, 15? 10 people from 1974 to 1991?” He paused before saying “When was that, Ernie? Weren't you were a grizzled, old detective then? Why don't you tell us all about it and how you cracked the case?”

“Smart ass!” Ernie playfully swung at the back of Jason's head. “You should live so long in this job. But, yes, it was 10 people for that time period and, for him it was sexual as well as a driving need to have absolute control over other people, a need for power. That sick bastard really got off on it. He killed the victims of his power high and sexual attack in order to cover those crimes.“

“Stewart, is there anything that gives you any sense of a sexual nature to this?”

“Not that I could find, Amy.”

“Can you tell us anything else about the knife?” Jason interjected.

Turning to Jason Stewart replied, “Yes, I can. Let me make this simple for you, Jason. It was sharp and pointy.” Shaking his head he added, “No, there really is nothing else that I can tell you about the knife itself. Unlike on TV, the reality is stab wounds are not neat and pretty. The blade swivels and slashes inside the victim making any special or unique markings on the blade impossible to profile.”

“Oh! OH! I see how it is. Thanks, Stewie!”

Everyone was silently writing notes as Amy continued, “What can we see in this one crime?”

“Before we say this one crime, are there any others like it?” Ernie asked around a mouthful of doughnut.

“Good question, Ernie, and you are just the guy to find out. I expect an update on your progress by five o'clock today, got it?”

“You got it, Amy. That will start my laundry list. What else?” Ernie asked.

“When we get there, you'll know.”

Amy continued, “Sexual aspect considered already, thanks for going there, Jason, you sick pup. We are looking at the jealous woman, jilted lover aspect, also the possibility that someone who knows Craig wanted him dead and in a bad way. What else? What are we overlooking? Who is going to look into the business contacts and business competition aspect of this?”

Before anyone could answer police sergeant pushed the door open very quickly, “Sorry to interrupt, Detectives, but you need to turn on the news.”

Amy responded first, “Which channel?” grabbing the remote and turning the TV on.

“Any channel. It's all over.”

“Good morning, I'm Kimberly Orlando with breaking news. Yesterday police were at the Bradbury on the southwest side of town, as many of you have already heard. We have just received inside information from what appears to be a credible source that the police are right now pursuing this as a murder. They say that the victim, Craig Williams, was found suspended inside one of the elevators at the Bradbury. We are told that the victim was stabbed 150 times and left to die, hanging in that elevator. As we learn more, we will keep up updated. Thank you.”

Silence fell throughout the entire precinct. It only lasted for a few moments, but it felt like an eternity for the detectives. Their haze was finally shattered by hoots and hollers from the detained people in the precinct room.

The detectives sat in silence not wanting to say it. Amy's face turned a brilliant red with anger. “That sonofabitch!” Looking around the room, she barked, “Get to work!” They all jumped out of their chairs” Get back to checking everybody who knew Craig Williams and Gabrielle Pipkin … ALL of you, now!” While Ernie, Jason, Joyce, Stewart, and Dorothy quickly scurried out of the briefing room to get out of view and get working, Amy kept talking, “I'm going to the media desks to see if there is … nah, there is no chance that leak has a back trail, but it's gotta be checked … shit, I'm on the media like white on rice.” she heaved a heavy sigh.

While the others hurried off chasing leads and names from contact lists or to head back to the morgue Ernie sat at his desk. He began writing search protocols and putting them through police networks and crime databases. For the next hour he sat there, focused and intent.

That old wheelhouse got cramped after a night in, Zachary needed to get out, get some fresh air and feel the sunshine on his face. “To walk among the people outside is such a nice thing. There were so many nights and days in so many institutions that this little thing had been denied me.” Locking the gate behind him, Zachary walked down the drain-way and out into the late morning sun. With a satisfied sigh, he looked up at the blue sky, “That was quite a kill the other morning.” He put on thick framed square glasses and a light blue baseball cap that had a slight bit of shaggy blonde hair stitched in and hanging out from under the edge. He straightened out his tan jacket and then stepped out from the thick tangle of overgrown vines at the end of the tunnel.

This was a day to relax and watch the police scramble like insects. They would run wild after seeing that he told the media that Craig was stabbed 150 times. Later today, maybe for the evening news, the announcement that it was one man that the police are looking for, or maybe they will be looking for someone that Craig knew from work? Well, Zachary had not decided that as yet.

As he walked along the waterway, he casually put one hand in his coat pocket. His fingers played lightly over the handle of his knife, the Sykes Fairbairne knife that he always carried with him. The same one the he used on Craig. The same one he used in every stabbing he did.

The river walk soon opened up to a plaza with a park. The area was full of people. There were people walking alone, walking with dogs of all sizes, shapes and colors. There were a few young couples sitting on benches in shadows under large, ancient oak trees. Old men sat on benches watching people walk by. Children played on the swings, slides, teeter-totters, and other varied pieces of equipment.

Among them, Zachary moved and mingled. He walked just as easily as any one of them. He knew that most of the people around him were good and decent people, people that would not hurt a soul. But, there were some, some right here, right now. Some who were undesirables. People that would, were hurting others in their daily lives. Abusers, cheaters, robbers, thieves, and the like who, just like him, walked freely among the good and decent folk. Zachary had to admit, as he again touched the pommel of his knife, that the itch was starting again. He had to admit to himself that he was on the prowl, hunting for kill.

There were so many in the plaza to choose from, the abusers, the cheaters, there were so many deserving targets to be hunted, tortured, and dispatched. Something caught Zachary's attention. Something that sent an chill through him. It was crying. A child crying. He looked around quickly. “There she is.” He smiled.

Zachary walked towards the girl who was crying, one hand slipped deep into a pocket. As he got near to the girl, he noted that she was about 8 years old, “Hello, Poppet,” he said with a British accent. Still crying, the little girl looked up into his face. He knelt down to get as close to eye to eye with her as he could. “Are you lost, Poppet?” This time he frowned, pouted a little, and tilted his head to the side a bit. The little girl looked into his eyes and sniffled, although there were streams of mucus and tears running down her cheeks and chin. “ 'ere, now. This won't do.” Zachary pulled from his pocket a handkerchief and wiped her face. “Now, that's lookin' be'er.” He even smiled a crooked smile. The little girl just looked at him. Zachary instantly stuck out his tongue and crossed his eyes for a quick moment and then grinned again. This time the girl chuckled. “Right! Now, what say you we go find us a police man so's you and 'im can find your mummy?”

With a grin and a little sniffle the girl replied happily enough, “That would be nice.”

“Of course it would.” Standing up, he held out his hand and the little girl placed her little fingers onto his. “Looky there, Poppet. There's a place what sells doughnuts, coffee, and 'ot coco. There's sure to be a copper in there. What d'ya think?”

She chuckled again, “You'd get me a hot chocolate?”

“Yes, but we gotta stay outside, get it at the window, 'ere. Stay where yer mummy can see us an' you can see 'er.” The two stood there sipping hot chocolates, each looking around. She was looking for her mother, Zachary was looking for someone. “Tell me, Poppet, what color was your mummy wearing today?”

She skewed up her face to show that she was concentrating and really thinking hard. “I think that she was wearing a red shirt and blue pants.”

Staring into the crowded market next to the square, Zachary asked, “Does mummy 'ave brownish 'air pulled back in a pony tail today? You 'ave a sister, do ya?” Zachary was looking at a mother and a daughter talking to a stocky man with gray hair and a wrinkled coat. He figured that older man for a cop,

“You found them!” the little girl squealed.

He pointed to the woman with the little girl talking to probable cop near the edge of the square.

“Mommy! Kelsey!” There was no holding her back. The little girl ran to her mother.

Ernie watched as Rachel ran to her mother and her sister, Kelsey. He felt an incredible wave of relief settle the instant they were all together again. He smiled as the scene unfolded before him.

“Thank you,” Mary said as the three walked into the crowd of shoppers with her little girls in tow.

Zachary watched the reunion from where he stood near the coffee stand. The little girl turned and pointed to Zachary, smiled, and waved. Zachary smiled his crooked smile and waved back. The mother led the little girl by the hand, took her other child by the hand, said something to the probable cop, and left. That man, the probable cop, turned to face Zachary. He looked straight at him, into Zachary's eyes. The started walking toward him. Zachary watched his approach, noting his slight limp on the left leg and the military styled hair cut. “Was that a military issued injury, copper?” he asked over the top of his coco as he brought it up to sip, the accent gone, his voice cold. “Yes, you are a cop, aren't you.” He threw the rest of his drink in the trash and walked off into the crowd in a direction taking him away from the officer and into the growing crowd in the plaza.

Ernie wanted to thank the man who had helped bring little Rachel up to the square and, ultimately to her mother. He started to walk over when the man tossed his cup in the trash and walked off. Ernie shrugged. He was thinking about going after him, but Ernie had some things to take care of before the lunatic he was working on killed again.

His phone vibrated insistently. “Yeah, this is Matthews … yes, I was for something like that … right … yes, extreme overkill would fit … it's a cold case, you say? Great, well, that is to say, not to say it's great that your department couldn't solve it … yeah, you know, thanks … can you email it to me? Fantastic! I'm heading back to my office right now to see it. Thank you very much … on, yeah, our coroner is going to love going over those pictures … again, thank you. Okay, if there I need more I can get it? Great, thanks. Bye.”

Turning around quickly and heading back towards the main street that would take him back to the precinct Ernie quickly called Amy,”Hey, I just got off the phone with the Miami police, they have a cold case that they say carries some similarities to ours … I don't know the specifics right now, it's been emailed to me and I'm on my way in, I just wanted to give you a heads up, you know, like you asked for this morning … that's right, you can always count on me, Amy.”

Ernie had been sitting at his desk going over the files now loaded onto his computer. “I now have information and photos on a cold case from Miami that's now 13 years old. There were three victims.” Ernie passed out the crime scene photographs as he read the overview of the report. “Horace Anderson, Nora Garcia, and Lena Sharp, she's the big girl with who was opened up, shown on the last set of pictures … “

The crime scene was unbelievable. There had clearly been a fight in there as well as a murder. Actually, that is where the first two victims were found, the third was found in the kitchen.

The living room was a mess. The sofa had been pushed around and some of its pillows were knocked on the floor and the chairs were knocked over. Blood was splattered everywhere. The pictures showed puddles, spray, splatter, you name it, it was there. There were drag marks where the victims had apparently tried to escape by crawling away. The coroner's report indicated that they were being stabbed while crawling. Cause of death 83 stab wounds to Horace Anderson and 65 to Nora Garcia.

“That's some grim reading, Ernie.” How long Amy had been reading over Ernie's shoulder he couldn't guess, he had been so engrossed in the report and photos that everything around him faded into the background.

“Yeah, the perp in this, was some piece of work. Several wounds stopped short of vital organs, while some did not. These first two victims who were found in the living room had been tortured before being murdered. Even though there was organ damage, the cause of death is still exsanguination; however, the coroner believed that the wounds that caused death were the cuts to the arteries and veins and were administered last before the murderer went on to the third victim.” Ernie shrugged, “I have no friggin' idea how anyone could come to that conclusion.”

“Drama.” Stewart said.

Ernie spun, “Hey, Stewart. How'd you hear? Amy told you?”

Stewart nodded yes, his mouth full of coffee momentarily, “Yes, could you forward me what you have?”

“Of course. Too easy, man.” Turning back to the computer, Ernie read more, “The kitchen was worse, much worse, the report says.

There was blood and intestinal tract sprayed everywhere, the ceiling, walls, all over the floors. Chunks of flesh and bone that had been ripped loose by the violent tearing of the chain saw were splattered on cabinets and stuck to walls. Blood was thick and dark on the floor nearest the naked body of Lena Sharp, the third victim of overkill on this scene. She had been opened up from crotch to neck.

Lying next to her was the chainsaw.

“The coroner writes that he believed it was likely that this poor woman was alive at least until the saw got through the pelvis and into the intestine.” Ernie leaned back in his chair, just reading about that scene and looking over the photos was turning his stomach. “Goddamnit, what kind of a sick and twisted cuss is capable of these kinds of things?”

Zachary Leach found himself wandering through a bookstore. He had made his way to the New Age section. Picking a book on Astral Projection he thumbed through a few pages. “Now, isn't this interesting? Projection of my consciousness into another plane … hmmm, imagine the possibilities.” He picked out a few more similar books and asked aloud to no one, “I wonder if I can learn to project my consciousness into another's body? Now wouldn't that be interesting?”

Sanctuary

after all has been said and done
i am far too tired to fight or run
the dark has come
and found me truly done

i have done all that i can
i can do no more
not even standing i am slumped
on the floor

stand, i might, as if to fight
but there is nothing left in me

the night falls with a silent sigh, cold and alone are we
the understanding for which you pine
swept away by madness
all hope just sickens and dies

your heart desires no more.
how can this be?
tortured souls and ghastly memoris
    surround me, crying out
  sanctuary.

Night Falls

night falls with a heavy, a suffocating cloak
ash and dust fill the air
the air we breathe, each breath we take we choke
a brighter future was once our hope
a brighter future, what a joke
that brighter future was never there
that brighter future was a cloud of smoke
that smoke came from our own funeral pyres
and from our homes and cities destroyed in countless fires

night falls with a heavy, a suffocating cloak
ash and dust fill the air
the air we breathe, each breath we take we choke

After the Morning After, installment 2

Detectives Ernie Matthews, Jason Bolger, and Joyce Wolfe were standing nearby. They had been waiting patiently for for their tasks. The three started towards the elevator. Detective Love met them halfway.

Each of them were professionals and knew the drill, but, as Love was the senior detective at the precinct she got to call the shots. This sometimes bothered the others, but it did make sense in that no one went running off on a tangent, or duplicating effort, or doing anything really stupid.

There they stood, amidst the noise in the hall, the four of them, quiet. Amy gathered her thoughts. Residents were yelling from their doorways, complaining about being kept there. Amy let loose a heavy sigh, “Alright, this perp is brutally sick and twisted. Matthews, you check everything and everyone that has anything at all to do with these elevators.” Ernie started to speak, Amy cut him off with a raised hand, “I know! That elevator looks nasty. We can not assume that it is the crime scene, it may just be the dumping site. We need to know if that elevator was out of service for any period of time at all last night or this morning. I need you to check out every single inch of every room that has anything to do with the system. Got me?”

“That's going to take some extra eyes. I'll need a few techs and a couple of uniformed officers, maybe four, at least.”

Amy stared at him for a moment, “Well? Get going!” Ernie took off at a quick pace to get the personnel he needed and get started.

“Bolger, you and Wolfe jump in with the uniforms doing interviews. Get names and chase down leads. I want you to find everyone and anyone who may have wanted this guy dead.”

Jason skewed up his face a little and asked Amy, “Do we know his name yet, Detective?”

Amy looked at Jason angrily, “Do want me to do your job for you? Maybe his name is on a lease here! Maybe the residents here know his name! Maybe Stewart found a wallet on the body! You're a detective, or at least supposed to be, go do your job!”

Realizing that the hallway had gone quiet, Amy looked around. She had an uneasy feeling in her gut. It felt like she was being watched. Almost everyone was looking at her in shock. “Oh, shit, I'm sorry, Jason. I shouldn't have yelled like that.” She said to herself, that would attract attention to myself

Jason relaxed a bit, “No. It's fine. From what I saw, peaking over your shoulder into that little slice of shit, it's a real mess, nasty, Chief.” He paused for a few moments to allow Amy to regroup her thoughts and to let everyone else get moving again. “Joyce and I will need some back up with this task, there's a lot of people to interview that want to get out of this building.”

“Take what you two can find, we're spread pretty thin. Just get the job done.” Amy turned and headed for Pipkin's door. “Oh, I'll send you all a text in a while with our meeting time. We need to all talk over what we have tonight, maybe first thing in the morning.”

LOVE TALKS TO GABRIELLE PIPKIN

The door to the condominium was unlocked. The officer opened it after checking Amy's ID. She found herself standing at the edge of a large and expensive room. The living room was 25x25, had leather furniture with polished end tables that looked like real wood, not the laminated ones she had in her apartment. “Damn, my place could almost fit inside here. Well, most of it , anyways.”

On the wall to her right there were tall bookcases. That was when she took note of the height of the ceiling in the room. It had to be 15 feet high. Yes, there was a sliding ladder on rollers that went from one end of the bookcase to the other.

In the middle of the bookcase was a fireplace. Gas, she figured. Above the mantel was a slightly curved television. Everything in the room scream high quality and higher dollars. From what Amy saw, the rest of the place was just as expensive and elegant as the two rooms she saw. A uniformed officer waved Amy towards the den where Gabrielle was getting checked out by the paramedics and was waiting for her.

The den was small and dimly lit. It was actually kind of cozy and welcoming. Amy felt herself relax a bit as she walked in. She thought, I can see why the paramedics chose this room to bring Pipkin to, this is real nice.

Looking at the paramedics sitting with Gabrielle, Amy asked, “How is she?”

“Well,” replied one medic, “medically she's fine. In perfect health, so far as we can tell, Detective.” The two then packed up their gear and left.

Gabrielle was on the love sear, huddled in the corner like a terrified puppy. Her eyes were wide with shock as if she had only just then been looking into the elevator. Granted, Amy reminded herself, it had only been a short while, less than an hour since Gabrielle had found the victim in the elevator.

“Hi, Gabrielle. I'm Detective Amy Love. I understand that you are the one who found the,” Amy always hesitated slightly at this point, never knowing how to truly classify the dead person, “victim ...”

“Craig.” Gabrielle interrupted, but barely audibly.

“Pardon?”

Gabrielle turned to face Amy directly, “His name is Craig. Craig Williams.” She then choked back tears.

Amy sat down next to Gabrielle. “How well did you know each other?”

Gabrielle looked down at the floor, her eyes closed slightly. Her shoulders slumped even more. Tears came and nothing Gabrielle could do would stop them. Before the tears, Amy knew the two were involved. She knew that Craig had provided for the condo. She knew everything in the way that only another woman could know. When the tears came, Amy reached across Gabrielle's shoulders and pulled her closer. She just held onto Gabrielle and let her cry for several minutes.

“Gabrielle? Sweety? Gabrielle, listen, I need you to get yourself together, honey.”

Gabrielle sat up, grabbed some tissues, and wiped up her face. “I'm sorry. I just ...”

“No, it's perfectly understandable.” Amy placed her hands on Gabrielle's knees, she was trying to keep her focused and, mentally, in the room, “Something indescribably horrible just happened to your husband … “

“No, boss.” Gabrielle swallowed hard before continuing, “He is, umm, was, I guess, my boss and lover. He, uhh, he paid for this place for us, but I still have my place across town. I know that this makes me look like a whore, but he was … I was … we were …” she sighed heavily, almost as if she had given up, and who could blame her, really, “I used my body to get bennies from him. We both enjoyed ...” she started crying again.

Amy stayed with Gabrielle for a few more hours. During which time she, Ernie, Jason, and Joyce had agreed by text to get their tasks done and be ready to talk them over with coffee and donuts first thing in the morning.

Ernie had just left with his task of inspecting the elevators. “So, what am I now, an elevator inspector?” he mumbled to himself as the second elevator gently descended. “Shit, I thought I was a detective.” In a mocking, snide voice and with an odd hip wiggle Ernie retorted to himself very nasally, “Go detect the elevators!” He was more than a little pissy because there were no uniformed officers available to help him out. He did, though, find one crime scene technician to go up to the top of the elevator shaft and climb down. Ernie thought about that and smiled, let that kid get her clothes filthy, 'sides, I'm getting too old for that crap, climbing down elevator shafts and shit.

Just then, Ernie's phone rang. The number on the display, Dorothy Acevedo, the technician, “Talk to me, Dorothy. Are we still in Kansas?”

“Piss off, Ernie, or I'll have Toto bite your ass.” she chuckled. “Listen, you have to get up here and on top of the elevator now, and I mean right now.”

In exasperation Ernie heaved a heavy breath, “Look, Dot, I have to get the computer logs to see if the elevator was shut down. I have to track down these jacks to interview before they slink off to get drunk on their break.” Jacks was how Ernie referred to janitors and similar workers.

“I get that, but I need your butt up here now. Like Marco fast.”

“What? Marco? What the hell are you babbling about?”

“C'mon, Ernie, Marco Polo, the game? Jump into the water fast so you don't get … never mind, just get your old ass up here now, as in five minutes ago, okay?”

“Alright! Alright! Settle down, I'm on my way.” Shaking his head, Ernie turns around and heads back to the elevator.

Minutes later, Ernie found himself just where he did not want to be. Standing on top of the elevator next to Dorothy. In front of them was a bin. The bin itself was about 8 inches deep, had solid edges. It was sticky with brownish material here and there in its basin.

“Good find, Dorothy. This may actually be the crime scene. Look around, see what else might be here that is out of place, alright?”

“Sure. What are you going to do, inspect the bin?”

“Actually, yes. That is exactly what I am going to do.”

Ernie looked at the depth of the bin. How the hell, he asked himself, could a grown man be held down inside a bin like this and tortured? How many perps were they looking for?

An empty wheelhouse, long years of disuse coated the building in dust, rust, vines, and tracks of countless vermin. Still, the antiquated electrical circuits were hooked up to the power grid. It was just the sort of place that Zachary Leach looked for. “And I always get what I look for, because I do not stop looking.” Zachary said to a rat, which ran off to hide in a shadow. “Mr. Craig Williams, I have been looking at you and Miss Pipkin for oh so long.”

He turned on the TV in the corner, placed a DVD into the slot, sat back in an over stuffed chair that still had the thrift store tag on it. He even giggled as he picked up his snacks, and poured a thick dark red liquid from a Thermos into a wine glass.. The video began.

It showed the top of the elevator. A man in a clown mask and green coveralls climbed up with one hand while pulling something in his other hand. Zachary laughed with amusement at this. The mask covered the entire head, neck and down into the shirt with white skin tight material. There was a fluorescent orange stubble around the head where long orange hair once stood out like flame. When the character turned to face the camera, with Craig firmly in his grasp, the hideous face was clearly seen. The high arching eyebrows were perfectly in place over the human, or inhuman, eyes of the man wearing the mask. The nose was tipped with bright red, as were the lips which were drawn back in a hideous grin. An evil grin revealing rows of yellowing, stained, pointed teeth.

Zachary watched with anticipation as he fastened Craig's hands and ankles into police issue shackles, the chains slid into slots along the edges at the corners. The shackles were secured to the top of the elevator, but that was not clearly seen on the video.

Craig was semi-conscious, Zachary slapped him a few times to wake him up. Suddenly, the elevator started moving. It appeared to be going up. Zachary watched himself laughing. Craig started to talk, he wanted to know, rather, began demanding who Zachary was and what the hell was going on. Zachary Landed close to Craig's head. Grabbing Craig's jaw with one hand, Zachary painfully forced his mouth open and stuffed a wad of material deep into Craig's mouth. Nothing more than muffled, unintelligible sounds escaped from Craig after that.

Zachary leaned over Craig, “I understand that you are uncertain about knives.” With that Zachary pulled out a long, thin dagger and waved it in front of Craig's eyes. Craig tried to push his head away from the blade. “Oh, I can see the fear in your eyes, yes. You are afraid of blades, I see. You have this irrational fear that one is going to, somehow, jump out and stick itself into your thigh. Now, since you never tell anyone these deep, dark secrets of yours, how could I know?” Zachary chuckled, “Pillow talk, Craig, you tell your sweet little gal, Gabrielle everything on the pillow.”

As he watched the video of this he recalled that moment, the very moment when Craig's eyes became filled with fears and questions that he knew he would never be able to ask. Questions like how could Zachary have been privy to their pillow talk, and then the deeper fear and violation came. The realization that Zachary had been inside their bedroom during those nights.

Zachary began to stab Craig. As he did so, he counted each stab. He placed the knife against Craig's upper abdomen “Do not fret. I am not going to kill you by piercing any organs.” He pushed the knife in. When he stopped, he said, “That point is your liver. Another quarter inch, I open up your liver, and you die so quickly, We can't have that now, can we? No, we have to make certain that Gabrielle finds you. Still breathing, but only just.” Zachary continued to stab into muscles and body cavity, but never cutting an artery, vein, or piercing an organ.

Finally, putting the knife down, Zachary Put together the rig used to suspend Craig in the elevator. He watched intently as he lowered Craig, bleeding profusely, down into the elevator. He reached into a large duffel bag and pulled out a thermos and a basting syringe. He then filled the thermos with the syringe and tossed that down into the shaft. Once the thermos was put away safely, Zachary then dumped Craig's blood over him. Zachary turned to the camera, “I trust that we enjoyed the show, Detectives” waved, and then turned the camera off.

Next on the video was a view of the hallway. There were several people talking in annoyed tones to the police. They were trying to convince the police to let them go off to work or their other tasks before the detectives got there to interview them. Finally, the first three detectives showed up and stood aside. They seemed to be close friends, and to truly enjoy each others company.

“They must really trust one another,” he paused, “and very deeply. Now, enter the scene, Detective Amy Love. Ahhh, see how she takes control of things … yes …” lifting up the wine glass of blood, he says, “A toast to me.“